A Gentle Thought for the Days That Feel Heavy

 

Some days just feel heavier.

Not dramatic or loud—just... weighted. 

Like I’m moving through fog. 

My body makes it through the day, but my heart stays curled up somewhere behind. 

I move.

I show up. 

But under it all, there’s a quiet tug that makes even the smallest movement feel like effort.

I wouldn’t have called it depression. It didn’t seem big enough to name. 

But it was there. 

Quiet. 

Constant. 

A kind of still ache that followed me from morning to night.

And still, I think I was healing—even then.

Not in a bright or cinematic way. 

Just gently. 

Quietly. 

The way soft things begin.

I didn’t scold myself for being tired.

I let myself move slower.

Then one day, I went out, just to shift something. 

I saw the trees. I paused for a second. A minute. An hour.

And somehow, I felt a little better. 

I think I’m healing.

Not all at once — but I sensed something.

Healing, for me, has been this kind of quiet loosening. 

Letting the day hold me, even when I wasn’t sure I belonged in it. 

Sitting with the fog, not asking it to clear right away. 

Just staying with it.

On hard days, I say, "Just today. Just now."

There are still days when I don’t have the words. 

Still moments when I don’t know if I’m okay.

But today in my basket, I whisper, "I'm aware."

And that’s more than enough.